Five
by sabotouri
Summary: How many deaths can one man die?
1. Eames

Thank you to **thecornergirl **for her fabulous beta. This was an awesome story to write with her =)

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_A stupid mistake._ A stupid mistake was the reason why Eames was dragging one hundred and eighty pounds of dead weight over his shoulder, at a full clip through an alley.

"Come on, Ariadne!" he screamed back, not slowing down so she could catch up. He heard gunshots ping off the brick a few inches behind him and threw himself around the corner, Ariadne sliding past him a second later.

They tumbled into the waiting car, Arthur tossed crudely across the backseat. Ariadne crumpled behind the passenger seat, covering her head, as Eames landed on top of Arthur's legs, slamming the door.

"Go, go!"

Yusuf tore away, bullets raining down around them, smashing the window and ricocheting off the frame.

"What happened?" Yusuf cried, turning the corner and flooring it. "Where's Cobb?"

Eames and Ariadne said nothing, exchanging pained glances that told Yusuf everything; Cobb was dead. He'd taken a bullet to the neck and bled out before they could do anything.

Ariadne climbed into the front and buckled her seatbelt, turning back to look at Eames, who was currently stemming the flow of blood gushing from Arthur's abdomen.

"He needs a doctor," Eames said, his mouth barely moving, eyebrows knitted together in pain.

"So do you."

"Should we go to a hospital?" Yusuf asked, his voice high with panic. This wasn't like the inception; the gunshot wounds and bullets were all too real. Eames shook his head no.

"We need to get as far away from here as possible, but Arthur doesn't have long, twenty minutes maybe."

"Is your jaw broken?" Yusuf asked, the car jumping as he sped over train tracks. Eames nodded shortly, wiping the blood of his hands and pushing down on Arthur's wound with his palm again, shrugging one arm out of his jacket.

"Ariadne, rip this sleeve off, I need something to cover it with." Ariadne obliged, working her fingers into a tiny tear in the seam and yanking it apart. She handed the tweed to him, folded in half, and turned back to face the front, her face ashen. "Arthur? Arthur, can you hear me?"

Arthur said nothing, his eyes rolling, a tiny bubble of blood appearing at the corner of his mouth. Eames sighed, readjusting his charge so that Arthur's legs were in his lap instead of under him.

Five minutes later, Yusuf spun the car into an abandoned warehouse, slamming the door and locking it behind them while Eames and Ariadne dragged Arthur out onto the ground. It was eerily familiar but, this time, the threat of death was greater than a lifetime in limbo.

"He's a bit peaky, no?" Eames asked, pulling Arthur's shirt out of his waistband and wiping the blood off of his stomach. "This isn't good. It's broken through his diaphragm."

"What do we do?" Ariadne asked, wrapping her arms around her waist and rocking back and forth on her heels. "He needs to go to the hospital. Eames, he needs a doctor."

"It won't matter," Eames replied, shifting on his knees. Ariadne looked at Yusuf and back at Eames, mouthing wordlessly.

"So we just watch him die? That's our plan?"

Eames took a few controlled breaths, fighting the nausea rolling through him. It was surreal, all of it. His mind jumped from Cobb's open eyes, unfocused and clouded, to the blood blossoming still from Arthur's stomach, to Ariadne huddled in the corner, looking nothing short of terrified. Arthur's blood was on his hands; he might as well have pulled the trigger and that was enough to send him begging for confession.

He took a knee, resting the arm that was cradling his jaw on his thigh. Eames patted Arthur's chest, avoiding eye contact (not that Arthur could have maintained it if he wanted to) and staring a hole into the wall. The pain from his mouth was shooting down his neck and radiating into his shoulder.

"Quite the mess, eh?" Eames mumbled, to who he wasn't sure. Arthur managed a grunt, coughing slightly.

"Is he in pain?" Yusuf asked. Eames shrugged.

"Probably, he's been shot."

Yusuf raised his eyebrows as his phone began to ring. "You seem unconcerned."

"He knew it would end like this."

Eames had seen it in Arthur's eyes the second they'd arrived in the dream; he knew he'd been deceived. Arthur had pulled a gun and fired an awakening shot immediately.

Yusuf excused himself to answer his phone, leaving Eames sitting alone with Arthur. Arthur's eyes had closed and his breathing was labored, blood streaming down his stomach and slipping away under his waistband.

"We attracted attention," Yusuf said, shoving his phone back in his pocket. "Peter says the entire police department is looking for us, we have to go now."

Eames nodded, standing and moving towards the car. Ariadne couldn't keep her surprise and disgust off her face.

"We're just going to leave him here?"

"You heard Yusuf," Eames replied, sweat beginning to line his brow. Between the pain bursting from his jaw and the triple digit heat, he didn't know for how much longer he'd be vertical. "We have to go."

"This is insane," Ariadne cried, throwing her hands up. "We are not leaving him here, he needs a doctor. You need a doctor! Eames!"

"If we go to the hospital it will be only a matter of minutes before we're found," Eames

"If we leave him here, he'll be dead before we come back," Ariadne bit back, kneeling next to Arthur and wiping his stomach again. Eames sighed.

"We're not coming back."

Ariadne's head snapped up, her eyes meeting with Eames', and she looked sick. He knew she understood that he was suggesting that they leave their friend there to die, to save themselves, since he was going to die anyway. She began to shake her head.

"Eames, no. I can't, I won't-"

"Come on, dear."

He watched Ariadne back away from Arthur slowly, her face drained of color, and climb into the car next to him. Tears finally spilled down her cheeks as Yusuf pulled out of the warehouse, her fingers entwined with Eames' s.

Two hours passed before Yusuf pulled into the driveway of a small house overlooking the bay, and turned the engine off, saying nothing. He climbed out of the car and Ariadne followed him, leaving Eames alone.

Minutes turned into hours, the throbbing in his jaw subsiding finally as the sun slipped away below the horizon.

Numbers tripped and stumbled through his mind, lost and found almost simultaneously. Seventeen jobs, two kids, more deaths than he could count. Eames wasn't the best at math, but he knew that the two he had added today was too many. Seventeen, two, infinity, and it was all too much.

He cried in the car, his first tears in ten years, and he couldn't even summon up a proper sob because of his damn jaw. Instead, he licked the salt at the corner his lips and stared out across the silky bay.

When inky darkness had completely enveloped him, Eames got out of the car and started to walk, looking for lost. If Eames knew anything, it was that a gun fired in nothingness hits nothing.

Arthur died.


	2. Ariadne

Arthur shoves Ariadne, dressed in nothing but a bed sheet, in a closet a second before the front door explodes off its hinges, sending splinters raining down on Arthur as bullets begin to fly. She has enough of her wits about her to stifle her scream when she sees Arthur shot, square between the eyes.

Her chest is heaving, tears running down her cheeks as she claws at the walls like a caged animal, trying to find a way out without being seen. The sheet she was wearing as a haphazard dress has pooled at her feet and when the door is jerked open, bathing her in fluorescent light, she feels more naked than she has ever felt before.

She knows, when he grins at her, that this is it, this is what Arthur was afraid of. He was not afraid of death for himself, but for her, completely innocent, wrong place, wrong time. She knows that when he looked at her, that last little stutter step was supposed to be their chance and now, it's gone. She's going, going, gone.

The man who shot Arthur grabs her and tugs her out, his face dotted with blood, Arthur's blood, and she is vomiting on his feet. He kicks his leg out, sending sick flying and grabs her by the upper arm, tearing her out of the house, past Arthur's body and she's breaking her neck, straining over her shoulder to catch one last glance, to see if maybe, by some miracle, he's still alive.

Her eyes are practically crossing as she twists in her captors grasp and a second before the car door slams, she sees him, thick, curdled blood rolling down his face, across his open eyes and it's all she can bear.

They don't make it far before that other man, the one who didn't pull the trigger, is heavy on top of her. She shoves at his hands, tries to draw her knees up and struggles for a long minute before a slap takes all the fight out of her. She stops panicking and starts praying for death, closes her eyes and begins to count her heartbeats until they slow to double digits. She closes her eyes and is back in the lobby of the hotel, standing next to Arthur again, all smiles and cheap airport perfume.

"_You should have gone home."_

_Ariadne hears him walk up, though she doesn't turn to face him. She is already three sheets to the wind, drunk off of adrenaline and Mei Tei's, and has been making eyes at the bartender for an hour._

"_What do you want, Arthur?" she slurs, propping her head up on her hand. Arthur doesn't reply, picking her up like a princess and carrying her out of the bar, uncaring that everyone is staring. She kicks her legs weakly for a minute, before allowing her head to loll back, laughing a little._

_Kidnapped, she thinks, isn't so terrible, though she wasn't entirely sure why she was being carried out like a rag doll. For a second, she feels scolded like a child and begins to say something before changing her mind and snuggling into him as discretely as possible._

_Arthur wears no expression on his face as they cross the lobby, exit the hotel and climb into a waiting taxi. She practically falls asleep in his lap, her head resting against his starched shoulder, her fingers picking at a loose thread._

"_Hey, Arthur?" she hiccups, looking up at him. He says nothing. "Arthurrrr-"_

"_What?"_

"_How'd you know where I was?" She looks up at him, her nose brushing his chin and is suddenly very aware. His cologne smells expensive, he smells expensive and she can't hide the blush that creeps across her face. It is no accident, a stolen kiss two layers deep, that she is a little enchanted and he is more than a little blasé, because that's Arthur._

"_How'd you-"_

"_I saw you go in," he interrupts, sliding her off his lap and onto the seat next to him._

_At some point they arrive at Arthur's house and instead of carrying her, he helps her stumble into his house, dumping her unceremoniously on the couch and padding into the kitchen to find something to help her sober up._

_He comes back and is met by a naked Ariadne, having clearly misinterpreted his gesture. She saunters up to him, only to be rebuffed._

"_Ariadne," he scowls, leaning against the couch and crossing his legs, his body betraying him. "You're naked."_

"_I got hot," she mewls, taking two steps towards him, only to have him take two steps back. "What?"_

"_This isn't going to happen like this-"_

"_But it is going to happen-"_

"_No." Arthur's voice sounds weird to him, higher than usual and cracking a little and for a second, he considers it, before brushing the thought away. As he tosses her the sheet draped across the back of the couch, he hears voices at the door._

_She is about to question when he grabs her and shoves her in the coat closet._

"_Arthur, what the fu-"_

_He clamps his hand over her mouth and pushes her into the closet. He stares at her for a long minute, his fingertips brushing her lips as his hand drops, and takes a half step forward, his face less than an inch from hers, before shaking his head and shutting the door._

_Suddenly, she is stone cold sober. A lump forms in her throat as she recognizes the fear in Arthur's eyes, a helplessness that catches her off guard. Goosebumps rise on her skin and she tries her hardest not the move. She hears his gun click, and a second later, a crash._

Ariadne doesn't open her eyes again when she feels the cool metal of the gun pressed to her temple. She takes a few deep, slow breaths, sure they're her last and after a minute, finally opens her eyes.

"You are an unlucky girl," the man growls and she can't stop the bitter laugh that escapes her throat. How wrong he was. Luck had nothing to do with it, with her circumstance. Arthur's selfless devotion to chivalry buys her precious seconds, the seconds she was using now to accept death. The last thing she thinks before the gun goes off is that she could have loved him.


	3. Fischer

Robert Fischer kept one eye on his wife the entire flight. He had an entire stack of proposals to read and review before they landed in Los Angeles, but he couldn't keep his mind focused on the numbers long enough to make any progress.

After the sixth hour had passed without a word from Ariadne, Robert finally cleared his throat and took her hand.

"Are you okay?" he asked. Ariadne jumped, clearly having not been paying attention. She turned her head to look at him and smiled, nodding. He raised his eyebrows and cocked his head to the side, placing his palm on her cheek.

Ariadne closed her eyes and rested her face in Robert's hand, fighting the tears she knew were coming. Robert leaned forward and kissed her forehead softly, lingering a little longer than he usually word, something not lost on Ariadne, who began to fidget.

"Ari, we don't have to go if you don't wa-"

"No," she interrupted, sitting up straight. "We're already on our way."

Robert sighed, running his hands over his face and into his hair, tugging at the graying roots in frustration.

"I know, but we could drive up the coast, visit your parents," he said, crossing his legs. "We could just turn around in the terminal, not even go through customs."

"Robert, we're not flying fourteen hours to turn around and go home."

"I'm just saying, if you'd like to-"

"It's okay." Ariadne forced a smile, before heaving herself out her chair. "I'll be right back."

Robert smiled a small smile, following her down the aisle with his eyes. He turned his attention to the milky horizon out the window, not hearing her when she sat back down. His eyes grew heavy and he was almost asleep when she cleared her throat.

"Can we talk?" she asked. Robert coughed, and turned his head.

"I thought you didn't want to talk until we got back?"

"Robert-"

"If it's what you want, then fine, but we don't have to decide right now."

Ariadne sighed and leaned away from him, looking out across the aisle. "Fine."

Not twenty-four hours ago, the news had come, sending Ariadne into hysterics and Robert into crisis mode.

_Robert walked down the hall towards his and Ariadne's bedroom, thumbing through a file when he heard a choked sob come from his wife's study. Stopping, he turned and pushed the door open in time to see Ariadne hang up the phone and put her head in her hands._

"_Ariadne, are you okay?" he asked, walking over and kneeling next to her chair. Without answering, she slipped out of the chair and into his arms, knocking him off balance and sending them both to the ground._

"_Ro-Ro-Robert, we have to g-g-go home," she snubbed, her voice barely audible through her cries. Robert leaned back against the desk, kissing her head and smoothing her hair._

"_Why? What's wrong?"_

"_A friend of m-m-mine just died."_

"_Oh," Robert said simply, unsure of what the appropriate response was. He could see she was sad and yet, in five years she had never mentioned any friends from home. "Who?"_

"_Arthur," she hiccupped, resting her head against his chest and curling her fingers around his arms._

_They sat there for a long time, Ariadne's tears finally stilling after an hour or so, her breathing slowing as she fell asleep. Robert carried her to bed as the sun set, casting long shadows down the halls of the palatial mansion and warming their bedroom through the giant picture window. He pulled her shoes off and tucked her under the down comforter before leaving quietly._

_For a long time, he just walked from one end of the house to the other, racking his brain for any memory or mention of an Arthur and, long after the home grew dark, he finally decided he didn't know who the man that had Ariadne so crushed was._

_Tucked into bed, Ariadne was lost in a dream filled with memories of Arthur, with no sign of her husband. _

_She walked down a long, empty street, lined with dying trees. A cold wind played at her bare shoulders and before long, snow had started to fall. He started as a pinprick in the distance, coming into sharper focus until he was right in front of her. He had started taking his coat off before she even got to him, draping it around her shoulders when she stopped._

"_You died," she said plainly. Arthur nodded, crossing his arms. "Why?"_

"_That's an odd question."_

"_I mean, why'd you give up?"_

"_It wasn't like I had a choice, Ariadne. I had stomach cancer, not a paint swatch."_

"_You were going to wait for me, Arthur," she said. Arthur sighed._

"_Ariadne, I waited six years and I was dying for four of them, you knew where to find me."_

"_I couldn't leave Fischer."_

"_You couldn't leave Robert," Arthur said gently, stepping closer. "You married the man, not the mark."_

"_It should have been you."_

"_Perhaps."_

_Ariadne turned over in bed, sighing loud enough that Robert heard her in the hall. He stopped pacing and crossed the room, lying down on the bed next to her. Her hair had fallen over her face and he couldn't help but notice how dark the circles under her eyes had gotten. He reached out and gently swept her bangs back, leaning into kiss her when she grunted and flipped over. He sighed and shoved out of bed, returning to padding the halls._

_He toiled around for another hour or so, making a call to his pilot to arrange their trip home, packing their bags and having a drink (double Scotch, no ice) on the back porch. Somewhere around midnight, Ariadne woke up._

"_You packed my bag?" she asked, yawning as she walked out onto the balcony. Robert nodded, taking a sip of his drink. He nodded towards the Mei Tei on the table he'd made for her. She smiled and sat down next to him, pulling her legs up Indian style._

_Neither one of them said anything until their drinks were empty. Ariadne moved into Robert's lap, nuzzling her head in between his shoulder and chin. He kissed her temple and wrapped his arms around her waist._

"_Tell me about him," he said. It was part morbid curiosity, part panic that drove him, for he wasn't sure what he was about to find out but he needed to know._

"_He was a researcher I worked with in Paris," Ariadne said, choosing her words carefully._

_She knew she was already on thin ice taking him home with her for Arthur's funeral. Since being married five years ago, Ariadne had spent nearly every minute in fear that Robert would find out, that it would ruin everything she had worked so hard._

_Their marriage was motivated by guilt on her end. After returning to Paris, she'd been unable to get Fischer out of her mind and became obsessed with his well being, all the meantime carrying on a relationship with Arthur. When she'd made her first move towards a relationship with Robert, Arthur had been gone before she'd woken up the next morning._

"_What did he research?" Robert asked, his voice loud in her ears. " Architecture?"_

"_Land grants," Ariadne lied, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Permits and stuff like that."_

"_You must have been close with him to be so upset," Robert said, hoping his voice didn't betray him. The thought of her with someone else made him ill._

_Ariadne climbed out of Robert's lap and walked back into their bedroom without answering. Robert sighed, dropping his head into his hands. He'd done it again, said something completely innocuous and, because she told him nothing, it had been offensive._

"_Ari," he called after her, picking up their glasses and following her inside. "Honey, I-"_

"_Why, Robert?" she asked, walking out of the bathroom. She'd changed into her pajamas and piled her hair on top of her head. "Why do you have to assume I have all these secrets?"_

"_What are you talking about?" Robert asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. Ariadne crossed her arms._

"_You always think that I'm hiding something from you, why do you always act like that?"_

"_I really don't know-"_

"_You must have been really close," she mocked, putting her hands on her hips. "Why can't I be sad about my friend dying without you thinking I fucked him?"_

_Robert winced; he hated when she swore. "Ari, I don't think that. I was just-"_

"_Because I did, Robert. A lot, and if you hadn't swept me up, I'd be there right now, instead of stuck here. He is twice the man you'll ever be, and if you think I don't regret leaving every single day, you're sadly mistaken."_

_Robert's mouth was hanging open. He had no idea what he'd said to make her so mad._

"_Ariadne, I love you."_

"_No, you don't," Ariadne said, pointing her finger at him. "You love being married, it has nothing to do with."_

"_Why would you say something like that?" he said, his chest tightening. "Ariadne, I would do anything for you, haven't I made that obvious?"_

"_You haven't done anything for me that didn't benefit yourself, including marrying me. You needed a wife to keep up appearances, you are so concerned with vanity. Arthur wasn't-"_

"_He didn't love you like I do. I don't know anything about him and I can assure you of that," Robert replied, standing up and crossing the room to her. "Ariadne, you can't talk to me like this just because you're mad."_

"_Oh, fuck you, Robert," Ariadne spit back, turning to walk away. Robert grabbed her elbow and jerked her back around. _

"_Stop it!" he said, his voice raised. He pulled her to him, their faces an inch apart. "I will not let you cheapen our marriage just because it makes you feel better!"_

"_Good Lord, Robert, cut the shit, and please let go of me, you're hurting me."_

"_Not until you apologize, this is ridiculous. I'm doing everything I can to get us there. I know what you're doing, I see what you're trying to do, and I won't let you. I'm not going to let you use you grief as a motivator to drive a wedge between us."_

"_Robert, you're hurting me, please let go," she repeated, tears in her eyes. Robert leaned his head down and looked her straight in the eye._

"_Just tell me you're sorry," he said, loosening his grip. He dropped his hand to her waist, resting it on her hip._

"_I'm sorry," she whispered, tears spilling. Robert stood there, wordless, as she hurried out, rubbing her arm and choking back sobs._

_He felt terrible, the worst he had since his father died six years ago. How had it turned into this? How had summers in Bali and winters in Paris turned into a weekly screaming match? He hated that he was losing control of the situation, a quality Ariadne often picked on._

_As he crossed the house, following Ariadne, flashes of half remembered memories played through his mind. Their wedding in Napa, trips to Hong Kong, their first home together, the baby they lost. It was all surreal, like a lifetime ago._

_Sighing, he followed her out into the living room._

_She had sat down on the couch in front of the fireplace and was crying silently. He took a seat on the couch next to her._

"_I want a divorce," Ariadne said, her voice wavering. Robert couldn't keep the shock off his face. "Robert-"_

"_No, no way, why? You can't make a decision like that right now-"_

"_I'm not happy, Robert, I haven't been for a while."_

_Robert mouthed wordlessly, his face hot. "Ariadne-"_

"_Can we just talk about it when we get back?" she asked, putting her hand his knee. "Please?"_

"_I guess," he agreed, not standing to follow her when she left the room again. It was clear she was trying to avoid him._

_He sat in the living room for a long time, thinking about whether or not he should even begin to consider a lawyer; he was pretty sure that he would bend to whatever she wanted, since he knew it wasn't about the money. Ariadne was independently wealthy, something she had never explained to him, one of the many things on the list of things she never explained to him._

_The money. How she found him, in Bangor, Maine, of all places. That gold bishop she always carried. It seemed like it was connected and, at the same time, all of things he could imagine weren't good and he didn't like the idea of his wife being one of the bad guys._

_He heard Ariadne lock the front door, the last thing she always did before bed, and decided he would go to. He said nothing to her when he came into their bedroom, closing the door with his foot and heading into the massive walk in closet they shared. He shed his chinos and Oxford and tossed them in the hamper before stepping into old cotton pajama bottoms, the first thing she'd ever bought him._

"_You can't sleep in a two thousand dollar suit, Robert," she'd laughed. They'd been stuck in Los Angeles on a flight that had been canceled. She'd gone over to the clothing store across from the gate they were waiting at and bought him a pair of plain brown pajama bottoms. He wore them to that day._

_They climbed in bed, simultaneously turning their lights off and pulling the covers up. Ariadne turned away from Robert with kissing him goodnight. He sighed, and turned too. Half an hour passed and just as he was about to slip into a restless sleep, she turned over and wrapped herself around him._

"_I love you," she mumbled. "But I'm not happy."_

_He sighed and nodded. "We can talk about it when we get home."_

"_Goodnight, Robert."_

Robert replayed the scene over and over again during the first six hours of their flight home. When the reality of it finally sunk in, he turned to face his wife, cleared his throat, and took her hand.

"Are you okay?"


	4. Cobb

A single bead of sweat slips between Cobb's shoulder blades and he realizes, for the second time in less than two years, that he's been screwed by Eames' poor judgment.

The three men who have them cornered are your typical for-hire hit men and in the second it takes for Cobb to exchange a worried glance with Arthur, the big one grabs his weapon.

Cobb knows the second that the Cobol grunt pulls a gun that they're dead men. Cobb dives left, hoping Arthur is smart enough to save himself, and lands hard behind a stack of palates. Gunshots ring out, sending plaster raining down from the ceiling.

Fuck settling their debts, Cobb thinks as he fires through the wood. This was definitely not worth it.

Arthur drops the men easily with three succinct shots and then collapses back to the floor, the wound in his chest sucking viciously. Cobb crawls across the floor, smearing blood behind him as he goes, his kneecap in six or seven pieces. It hurts worse than anything he's ever felt in his entire life and, at the same time, the pain is nothing compared to the insane amounts of guilt he is swallowing. He reaches Arthur and pops the buttons off his vest when he rips it open.

"Shit," Cobb groans. "You're an idiot."

"Not now," Arthur replies, coughing violently, blood pouring out of his mouth. Cobb wipes his cheek, blood spraying when Arthur coughed.

"Come on, let's go," Cobb says, putting his arms under Arthur's and moving to pick him up, only to fall back down when his leg gives way. "Goddammit, Arthur, you have to get up!"

Arthur swats at Cobb's hand and tries to wipe his own mouth, instead letting his arm drop to his side. His breathing is beginning to labor and his eyes are starting to fade.

"Arthur, this is ridiculous, we have to go." Cobb is pleading now, begging his friend to get off the ground. He is watching Mal die all over again.

Arthur's chest is heaving, the blood coming from his wound starting to darken and Cobb knows he is dying; it is only a matter of time. Cobb knows he should go to a hospital, his knee is in pieces and bleeding profusely, but he can't leave the man he plucked from a bar in Littleton alone in an empty warehouse with three other bodies, and so he stays.

"_Arthur King?"_

_Arthur is drinking at his favorite bar when Cobb finds him, arms full of paperwork, three piece suit disheveled._

"_Who's asking?" Arthur asks, leaning back and wobbling a little. Cobb smiles, extending his hand._

"_Dominick Cobb."_

"_What do you want?" Arthur knows he sounds rude but he's had too much already and this guy has files and that's never good. _

"_I need your help, Mr. King, researching someone." Cobb sits down on the barstool next to Arthur and slides a thick manila folder in front of him. Arthur takes it warily and flips it open, scanning the small print._

"_Will Eames, 32, Suspected Currency Forger. What do you need to know, it seems like you've already got a lot."_

"_I need your help finding him," Cobb says, resting his elbows on the bar. "Last we heard, he was in Mombasa."_

"_Who is 'we'?" Arthur asked, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes. "Is this a joke? Did Bodhi put you-"_

"_Mr. King, I can tell you everything about yourself, from your Social Security number to the current address of Hannah Majors, the girl that broke your heart in fourth grade. Can you help us or do I need to be a little more convincing?"_

_Arthur blinks twice, before putting his glasses back on and opening the file again._

"_So, Mombasa."_

Arthur is dying, Cobb knows this and stays, because the guilt he feels is overwhelming. Six years of work and the closest they'd ever gotten to death was in a dream, and now here they were, in various stages of the ends of their lives, left with no one but each other.

"Arthur, I'm sorry," Cobb says, readjusting his leg so that it might, maybe, hurt a little less before he bleeds to death.

"Really, don't waste your last words on apologies," Arthur mumbles, his eyes rolling. "This hurts."

"Stop talking, you're making it worse," Cobb grunts, placing his hand on Arthur's chest. He feels Arthur's heart pounding and notices the blood squishing out in rhythm and suddenly feels sick. He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, tasting metal in his mouth and knows its blood.

_The sound of bullets pinging off metal makes Cobb's head hurt. He, Arthur and Eames are tearing down a hallway of some government building and, per the usual, Eames' mouth has gotten them in trouble._

_Cobb hears something snap like a piece of wood and a second later, Arthur's anguished scream. Eames skids past Cobb, not slowing down or stopping as Cobb wheels around and, almost mechanically, grabs Arthur and throws him over his shoulder, practically unaware of his weight._

"_You're unbelievable," Cobb roars at Eames when they emerge into the sunlight, scanning the traffic for Nash. "You were going to leave him there!"_

"_Mate, I knew you'd grab him," Eames responds, shoving a couple out of the way and flinging the door to the car open._

"_I knew that too and I'm still pissed," Arthur groans as Cobb dumps him in the backseat. "I think my leg is broken."_

_Cobb can barely catch his breath, but in the back of his mind, he can't help but feel a little panic._

"_How'd they find us?" he asks. Eames shrugs._

"_Probably a funny bloke I met in Monaco," he says, staring out the window. "Regardless, we need to go back to Los Angeles and regroup. I suppose Arthur here needs a hospital." Eames pats Arthur's knee, biting back a smile when Arthur screams in pain._

"_Leave him alone."_

"_Yeah, leave me alone."_

"_Oh, boo hoo, are you two getting hooked?" Eames deadpans, rolling his eyes._

_Neither Cobb nor Arthur has a response, choosing instead to look different directions and pretend the previous night hadn't happened._

"_How's your leg?" Nash asks after a few minutes and Arthur mumbles something in return. Eames scoffs._

"_Hell Arthur, it's a broken leg, you're not dying." Arthur rolls his eyes and Cobb can't help but smile._

The memory is enough to jar Cobb back and when he opens his eyes, Arthur is dead.

This is wrong, all wrong, he thinks, placing a full palm on Arthur's face. Young men shouldn't die of gunshot wounds, at least not without a warzone involved and Cobb feels Arthur has been cheated, living out his final moments on a crude cement floor.

It's unjust, unfair and though Cobb's never been a fan of the level playing field, he knows that he should taken Arthur's bullet. Instead, the only person left in the world who knows him, has died his death.


	5. Arthur

Six years in the dream world has tuned Arthur's senses sharply and so when the bullet slides into the chamber of the gun pressed under his chin, it's almost melodic.

To the outsider, the scene is stark and horrifying: a well-dressed, handsome young man is a mere finger twitch away from ending his own life. But Arthur is nothing if not thorough and has locked all of the doors and windows, to prevent harming anyone else's mind, and lined his last note up on the kitchen countertop next to his will and testament (his mother gets everything), Passport and the file on one Dominick Cobb.

Arthur has dressed in something almost like a uniform for him. His grey Hugo Boss three piece selected specifically to not show blood is pressed into crisp lines and his ombre tie is tied in a double Windsor knot, lying flat against the same white Oxford he'd worn to Ariadne's wedding almost a year earlier.

The wedding had really been what kick started Arthur's freefall, not because he was in love with her, because he wasn't, but because he realized that he could never have friendships or relationships that went anywhere. Seated next to Cobb at table seventeen, Arthur knew he'd been placed there because there was no place else for him to sit; he was a friend of the bride in some weird, twisted way, but definitely not family and he was, in no way whatsoever, a friend of the groom.

After an hour of uncomfortable silence with a man Arthur thought he knew, he couldn't handle it anymore and excused himself to the balcony where no one other than a few of Ariadne's older family members were milling around.

He had brought his glass with him and drank from it deeply, wishing that, in that moment, he believed in alcoholism. He leaned against the railing and surveyed the Fischer estate, backlit in all it's glory, and couldn't help but feel bitter.

"I take it you're not enjoying yourself?"

He knew her voice without turning around and so he composed his face before meeting eyes with her. Ariadne looked beautiful, the picture of matrimonial happiness and he didn't feel it was fair to ruin that with his pensiveness. She rested her hand on his forearm.

"Thank you for coming," she said, squeezing gently. He nodded and impulsively pulled her into a hug that lingered for a minute too long because before he could pull away, Robert Fischer was clearing his throat in the doorway.

"Ariadne, they're talking about cake," he said, his voice tight. Ariadne nodded and said goodbye to Arthur, following her husband back into the ballroom where their friends and family were beginning to congregate around a massive wedding cake.

He followed the couple (he couldn't say if they were happy or not, though he suspected she probably was) back in and settled against the wall where Cobb was standing, cradling a sleeping Phillipa, her head on his shoulders, long legs reaching past his waist.

"She party too hard?" Arthur asked, no hint of a smile. Cobb shrugged.

"It's almost midnight, I think we're about to head out. It was good to see you, Arthur," Cobb said, adjusting his daughter in his arms to offer Arthur a handshake. Arthur responded in kind and said nothing else as Cobb, Phillipa and a half-asleep James slipped out quietly.

Arthur didn't stay much longer after that, having lost the only other person in the room he knew, and was ready to collapse into bed when he got home, which he would have, had Eames not been sitting on his couch when he walked in.

"You're breaking and entering," Arthur grumped, locking the door behind him and beginning to take his tie and tux jacket off. Eames laughed shortly, propping his feet up on the coffee table.

"Its not breaking and entering if you leave the garage door unlocked, Arthur."

The men said nothing to each other for a long time, as Arthur changed out of his tux and into pajamas and put a pot of coffee on to brew. It was in the kitchen that he first notices the black folder, two inches thick, that hadn't been there before.

He picked it up and was surprised by its weight, turning it over and over several times before opening it.

"Eames, what is this?" Arthur called, flipping through the first pages, pages that contain pictures of Cobb, his children and, most unsettlingly, Mal. Eames walked into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, picking a banana up and tossing it back and forth between his hands.

"It's our next job," Eames responded, choosing his words carefully and continuing before Arthur could start talking or, as Eames predicted, yelling. "It seems Cobol has figured out our deception."

"Which one?" Arthur asked, grabbing the banana out of Eames' hands and throwing it back in the bowl. "We've deceived a lot of people, a lot of times."

"You know which one," Eames said, crossing his arms. Five years had aged his, grey beginning to fleck his blonde hair, his eyes no longer shining. "They've found Cobb."

Arthur knew that was what he was going to say. He put the folder down on the counter and shook his head no.

"I'm not interested in helping men with guns and a happy trigger finger find a home with two children in it."

"Arthur, they know where he lives and they don't want to kill him, they want to settle the score. They have a scrambler on their team."

Arthur snapped his head back around, ready to call Eames' bluff when a man dressed in an expensive suit that, despite its sizeable cost still looked sleazy, stepped out from the utility room, a man Arthur recognized immediately as Gabriel Cobol.

Eames shook his head once before he drove his elbow back into Cobol's stomach, felled by a shot from the CEO's bodyguard a split second later. Arthur choked back a gasp and grabbed the gun Velcroed under the cabinet next to him, pointing it level with Cobol's head.

"Enough," Cobol sighed, sounding almost bored. His bodyguard dropped his gun, reholstering it. Arthur was not so quick to stand down.

"What do you want?" he asked, pulling the hammer back on the Glock and taking a step forward. Cobol took two steps forward, his forehead pressed against the muzzle of the gun.

"You owe me Cobb," Cobol replied, leaning into the gun. "Kill me if you want, but you owe me Cobb and you're going to find him for me."

_Kill me if you want, but you owe me Cobb and you're going to find him for me._

It is self-preservation that made Arthur comply and so, for the next year, Arthur went along with the job, gathering information on Cobb's subconscious and its habits, before beginning to tool the report for Cobb's survival instead of his demise.

He drops little details into the report that are one hundred percent false and subtle enough that the scrambler won't recognize he's being tricked and Cobb will quickly see that he is in danger.

It took the entire year for Arthur to be satisfied with his job and on the night before the report is to be delivered, Arthur showered, dressed in his most expensive and forgiving suit, lined up his posessions on the counter and took a seat in the plush wingback armchair in his study.

The rich wood of the study is dark in the moonlight, shadows bouncing off the collection of books and antique tools lined up on the bookshelves, tools he had collected to represent his work and himself, the working keg of Cobb's operation.

Six years wasted or embraced and in the last minutes of his life, Arthur was, for the first time in a long time, unsure of whether or not it was all worth it. Everything he had acquired, all of the places he had been and what did it amount to?

His hand shook momentarily and he took a deep breath. He knew what it was for, for Phillipa and James and Cobb and that is enough.

The gun was heavy in his hands, the weight comforting and he knew that the longer he waited, the more likely someone was to find him too soon.

Arthur thought back on the six years that had brought him to that point and is satisfied, contented even that his last act was in fact selfless and when he reaches that conclusion, he pulls the trigger.


End file.
